I'm Still Here
by AnimePirateGal
Summary: Songfic to the song I'm Still Here. Sherlock's never really fit in, but now he's got John. Friendship fic.


Hello everyone! This is my first story for this section, although I have been creeping around here since about January... Well this is a songfic featuring the song, "I'm Still Here" by John Rzeznik/ the Goo Goo Dolls. I adore this song (yes, it is from a Disney movie- and it's a movie that I adore too) and I think it fits Sherlock pretty well. By the way, this is NOT slash. While I read slash, and have absolutely nothing against it, I couldn't write it to save my life. I believe that they are just really good friends, and such, although like I said, I do read slash. So without any more of my rambling, here's the story!

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><p><em>I am a question to the world,<br>Not an answer to be heard.  
>All a moment that's held in your arms.<em>

Sherlock had never fit in very much. He never was one to go outside and try to make friends or even acknowledge the fact that other kids were there, unless it was to insult them for their lower intelligence. His mother and father were two, average looking people when Sherlock was brought in to the world. They were overjoyed to figure out that they had another genius child; Mycroft did need someone else on the same wavelength as him.

But that's when everything went wrong. Sherlock was brilliant- a genius even- but he was... different. Neither parent truly cared that their child was different, that their child would rather try out different experiments than rip and romp in the sunshine like the others. After all, Mycroft had never been one to run around like every other kid. But Mycroft at least acted like a kid, at least when the other parents were around. Everyone knew he was smart, but they still thought he was... normal. Sherlock didn't act. At least, not to fit in. He acted to stand out, to prove he was better than the other kids- other adults.

People didn't like that. They hated the fact that a small child could spill their deepest darkest secrets in front of everyone, and most likely he would- if it could get him what he wanted. Sherlock didn't even care if other people hated him. But he did care about his mummy, and she was losing friends because of his... personality issues. She said that it didn't bother her, that she was truly happy that her both of her little boys were so smart.

It was in vain though. Sherlock could tell that it hurt her to see her friends walk away. To watch as her "friends" whispered behind her back that her child was a "freak". That was the first time he'd ever been called a freak. Mummy had flipped out the woman, claiming loudly and proudly that her child was most certainly NOT a freak.

Sherlock couldn't even quiet figure out what was wrong with the word. Freak, huh? It seemed to fit. He didn't play with other kids, he could outsmart nearly any adult, and he just didn't act right. So that's what he was? A freak? He guessed he could get used to such a title.

That night Mummy had wrapped him up in her arms and hugged him, the whole time telling him he wasn't a freak. He wanted to tell her that he was okay, that he guessed that's what he was. Even if he had been told he was a freak by the crazy cat lady- that maybe she had finally got one of her thoughts right. He didn't though. He just sat there, a seven-year-old, not even shedding a tear as his mum cried her heart out.

_And what do you think you'd ever say?  
>I won't listen anyway…<br>You don't know me,  
>And I'll never be what you want me to be.<em>

Mycroft could hear Sherlock moving around up stairs. Of course his little brother was running around up stairs at- Mycroft glanced at the clock next to his bed- three in the morning. He sighed rather heavily before getting up out of bed. The night was cold, which wasn't exactly unusual around these parts. But what was unusual was the fact that Sherlock was running around.

Of course he'd done things like this before. Waking Mycroft at all hours of the night by doing his experiments used to be a nightly routine. But that was before he had moved out. The only reason he was back now was the fact that he was visiting on holiday from university. He loved to come home and see everything experiment that Sherlock had done, but he knew it was getting to much for their mum. Their father had died recently, and to add to that pain, Sherlock just couldn't seem to sit still. He had gotten into more fights than ever, his experiments were getting more and more dangerous, and often he'd disappear for days at a time.

A fourteen-year-old shouldn't be able to just disappear, but he did. And he did it often. Mycroft, who was every bit as smart as Sherlock – and often times smarter- still couldn't figure out where he went every time he left.

Mycroft opened Sherlock's bedroom door. The room was a mess. Papers lay all around in a a seemingly random order, clothes with all sorts of different burns, cuts, and so on on them, and something that looked like a dead animal of some sort.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called into the dimly lit room. The only light came from a small lamp near the door that couldn't possibly light the whole room.

Somewhere near the bed where the light from the lamp didn't reach, he heard a cough. As he started to head in that direction he saw Sherlock's head pop up over the bed.

"What are you doing in here?" Sherlock asked. His voice was scratchy like it hadn't been used in a while... or like he'd been screaming. Mycroft stared at his younger brother. Sherlock's hair was ruffled, his clothes were baggy and he kept flexing his fingers like he might be ready to punch something (Or someone, Mycroft thought) at a moments notice.

Mycroft leaned back to give Sherlock his space, and to get out of hitting range. "I could ask you the exact same question. What are you doing up here? And what are those for?" Mycroft waved to the needles sitting on the table near Sherlock, although he feared that he already knew what they were for. The needles glimmered in the dim lamp light as Mycroft decided to move closer.

"Come now, Mycroft. I thought you were smarter than me." Sherlock said sarcastically as he stood up. He was wobbly on his feet like a pirate on a pirate ship. The scene would have been comical had it not been so morbid to think of his fourteen-year-old little brother doing drugs.

"How long?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock always did respond to direct questions better than ones asked in a roundabout way. He was much to smart for that anyways.

Sherlock flopped down on the bed like a limp rag doll. "Hm... Maybe three months? Time is so drifting while under the effects of drugs." Three months? That was about the time that Mycroft had moved the last of his stuff out of the house. Not that he was saying that he had caused Sherlock's dugs abuse, rather thinking that it was the thought of him returning and catching Sherlock that had kept the boy from doing it while he lived there.

"So that's where you go? You go and score drugs while your gone?" Mycroft asked him. When Sherlock didn't answer he sighed and then continued. "Sherlock... Look at me." Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and tried his hardest to glare at his brother. "You can't do this, okay? You can't do drugs and..." Mycroft couldn't think of what to say after that. He was going to say 'ruin your life' but that didn't seem to fit. Sherlock rarely did anything you would say that qualified as a life, but still.

Now Sherlock really glared. He glared at Mycroft for a solid minute before laughing. Quietly at first, but soon grew to be a crazy, hysterical laugh. Mycroft glanced over to the door, making sure that he had shut it so Mummy wouldn't here her darling little boy laughing like a mental patient.

"And what, Mycroft? I'm not doing anything else, no other destructive behaviors." Mycroft glanced around, again taking in the many hazardous things in the room, and thought of the dangerous experiments he did and how he never ate. Yeah, perfectly fine behavior. "Or were you going to say I was ruining my life?" Sherlock continued after watching Mycroft glance at the room. Mycroft silently cursed Sherlock's ability to read people just as well as he could.

Mycroft decided to go for another tactic. "Listen Sherlock, you're my little brother-"

"And that means what exactly? That we share the same DNA? Big deal. You don't need to be concerned. I haven't taken more than I can handle, and I always make sure that it's the best and cleanest before I even consider sticking it in a needle- much less my arm." Sherlock said before Mycroft could say anything else. "You've been gone a while Mycroft, you should know that I've changed just as you have."

With out another word Sherlock rolled over with his eyes closed. Mycroft stood there watching as Sherlock dropped off into sleep, or possibly passed out, Mycroft wasn't entirely sure which.

As he turned the lamp off and turned to shut the door, he stared back at Sherlock. He was only a child, he shouldn't be doing things like drugs and getting them from who only knows where. It was that moment there that he decided something. Sherlock would never change. He would never take care of himself, so it was up to Mycroft.

Within three weeks he had video cameras up around him and had arrested the idiot who had sold Sherlock the drugs.

_And what do you think you'd understand?  
>I'm a boy, no, I'm a man..<br>You can take me and throw me away._

Detective Inspector Lestrade had had an extremely busy day. He had seen over six different cases that all seemed related, yet there was no connection other than the way they died. They had never spoke to each other, no family members who knew about any of the others, and even their jobs were so different.

He was stressed and wanted nothing more than to go home and lay down in his nice warm bed. That's when he noticed something– or someone rather- laying face first on the ground. He rushed over to the body, quickly but gently rolling him over.

The boy in front of him couldn't be more than nineteen and was laying in a pool of blood. He checked for a pulse and found a light and rapid one. He gently tapped his cheek, trying to wake him up.

"Hey... kid. Come on now, wake up." he softly called out as he patted a bit harder. The boy's blue eyes slowly cracked opened and his arms flopped uselessly as he tried to push Lestrade away.

"Stay here, okay? I'm going to call an ambulance for you." he said as he reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. It wasn't even given the chance to ring a second time before it was violently knocked away from his hand.

"N-n-nooo..." the boy in front of him stuttered out. "No. No... help. No help." He pushed himself up with unsteady arms as he looked at the DI with his piercing blue-grey stare. With a little bit more effort he was sitting up at the entrance to the alley with only minimal help from Lestrade.

"Come on, kid. I have to call for help. You're hurt." He said as he leaned over for his cell phone. The boy stuck his hand out and caught his wrist with ease, although the grip was so loose that he could have easily shaken him off if he had really wanted to.

The boy didn't say anything, just sat there and held on to his wrist as he slowly shook his head. Almost like he was still telling him he wouldn't call for help, or maybe even denying that he was even there.

Lestrade's eyes roamed over the boy. He was tall and skinny, with brown messy hair that was thrown every which way. His clothes, which was only a thin, long sleeved white shirt and a pair of black pants, were wet and cover in grim from the alley. He had apparently crawled through it from the look of his clothes.

"What happened to you?" The question was out of his mouth before he could stop it. It did seem to get the boy's attention though, because he stopped shaking his head and glanced up at him.

"I... I was helping." he said. Lestrade glanced down the alley that the boy had crawled out of and saw the body of a young woman. Even in the dim light he could see the blood that was pooling around her head. He glanced down at the boy and saw that his hands- including the one around his own wrist- was covered in blood that more than likely wasn't his own.

"What's your name? What happened here?" He asked as he tried to lay the boy back down. Instead the boy wrapped his arms around Lestrade to keep him from moving.

"NO! Don't! He'll see you!" the boy stage-whispered- the kind that mothers with naughty children do in nice restaurants- at him. Lestrade sat very still, wondering whether the boy was mentally disturbed, or if the real killer was down the alley.

He sat in silence for several minutes before he saw it. A man stepped out from behind a large trash bin and leaned down over the girl. He plucked something from her- probably a necklace judging by the area- and turned to walk away.

That's when he noticed Lestrade and the boy sitting there on the ground. The boy looked dead, and Lestrade was already drawing his weapon. The man took off down the other end of the alley and turned right.

Lestrade laid the boy down on the ground while whispering that he'd be back. He quickly took off down the alley after the criminal.

_And how can you learn what's never shown?  
>Yeah, you stand here on your own.<br>They don't know me 'cause I'm not here._

Lestrade easily caught up with the man. After tackling him and hand cuffing to a metal pole, he ran back down the alley, needing to get his phone and check on the boy.

When he reached the end he didn't see the boy. There was no sign, other than the blood, that he had even been there. Lestrade glanced down at where his phone lay and realized that he had a new message.

"The girl's name was Hannah Greg. The man who murdered her was Michael Simpson. Look into him and I'm sure you'll find a string of charges against him. He was also responsible for the murders of Bethany Logan, Martha Jonas, Kelly Fred, Willow Banks, Morgan Smith, and Jade Williams- which you were looking into. He did it by the razor on his belt, which I'm sure he'll still have. Good-bye DI Lestrade.

P.S. I guess I owe you an answer. My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade glanced around the alley again, hoping to see some sign of the helpful citizen- after all the boy had seemed hurt, and he had helped him catch a killer.

But there was no sign of Sherlock Holmes.

_And I want a moment to be real,  
>Wanna touch things I don't feel,<br>Wanna hold on and feel I belong._

Sherlock stared down at the drugs in his hands. Despite what he said to people, he wasn't exactly proud of doing drugs, but he knew that if he showed any weakness towards them then people would pounce on it and try and make him stop. Mycroft had tried more than once.

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his head on the cool table. It was one of the only thing in his tiny flat that wasn't covered in something strange and/or disgusting. Which was ironic, since it was a table and suppose to hold things, not sit there while everything else sat on the floor.

Faintly Sherlock thought about moving out of his flat. It wasn't in a good neighborhood, and he had heard that Mrs. Hudson- who owed him a favor- was looking for a tenant. He could move in there and try to quit the drugs, but even he knew it wouldn't work.

He wasn't addicted to them per se, but rather the feeling he got from them. They sped his brain up so he could think better, not to mentioned cleared his mind. If his brain ever got too crowded by other useless thoughts he could just take a bit of them and they would be sure to do the job.

He flexed his fingers and then clasped them in front of his face, letting the drugs fall to the table. He didn't want to quit, no he could do that any time. What he wanted was a way out. A way that he could still have the feeling that the drug gave him, yet not have to deal with the ill side effects. He was getting nicotine patches soon, in fact they should be there any minute now, but he didn't want to stop the using completely.

He collapsed back against his hard wooden chair and sighed. He was just so frustrated. Lestrade wasn't suppose to see him, wasn't even suppose to know that he was involved. But then the killer- Michael Simpson- showed up. He killed the girl before Sherlock even had a chance to get out of his hiding place.

He glanced down at his arm where a giant gash was. The killer had turned and saw Sherlock, just in time to catch his arm with the razor. Sherlock had gasped and leaned away from him, and ended up stumbling down the alley until he passed out.

The man had been satisfied and bent down to get the shiny necklace that he always gave his victims when he heard someone coming. He quickly hid behind one of the large trash bins before whoever it was had a chance to see him.

Over the sounds of the alley, like dripping water, cats meowing, and passing cars on the other streets, he couldn't hear anything. He knew that the man must have seen the boy lying there, after all you'd have to be blind if you didn't.

He waited for a sign that he was still there, and when one didn't come he decided it would be safe to get out. Instead he ended up handcuffed to a pole by the DI.

Sherlock frowned at that memory. His brain had been so clouded over he couldn't think straight then either. Maybe something was wrong with him? Maybe he was just getting sick. After all that's what people do right?

Well not him. He didn't get sick, and he didn't fit in. And he was tired of that.

_And how can the world want me to change,  
>They're the ones that stay the same.<br>The don't know me,  
>'Cause I'm not here.<em>

Mycroft frowned at the computer screen in front of him. His brother had yet again managed to escape his sight, and was yet again hurt. He had no way of truly knowing what had happened, but he could safely say that it had something to do with the murders that Scotland Yard was trying to keep under wraps. Of course Sherlock had noticed the connections. There were several obvious ones. Or at least they were obvious to people like him and Sherlock.

He sighed as he saw Sherlock's arm. It was a rather large gash that still needed tending to. Sometimes he just wanted to smack Sherlock for his ignorance of his own health. Of course he shouldn't be surprised by now.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock dropped the drugs in a seemingly hopeless defense. He frowned deeper at his brother's behavior. He normally wasn't like this. He needed help. But how to get Sherlock to take it? He knew that he could force Sherlock to do what he wanted him to, but that often ended in him hurting himself trying to escape.

No, he couldn't keep using the same old tricks to get Sherlock to do what he wanted. He's have to think up something different this time. Mycroft called on one of his assistants, a tall, strong man named Robert, to go and fetch Sherlock and take him to the hospital. He was not to hurt him in any way, just make sure he went along.

Two hours later Sherlock was forced into a hospital, and was cursing up a storm. He said every horrible thing he could think of to anyone who was dumb enough to step in his line of fire. A nurse who was being paid exceptionally well by Mycroft was just barely managing to hold herself back from slapping him. He shouted out everyone's darkest secrets that he said they "wore on their sleeves for everyone to see- but they were too stupid to notice."

An hour after that Mycroft showed up at the hospital himself. He walked through the hallway without anyone even trying to stop him. He walked into Sherlock's private room, where the nurses and doctors were already done stitching him up and were now refusing to go anywhere near him.

Mycroft opened the door, expecting to be yelled at by his younger brother.

But instead he was gone.

_And you see the things they never see_

Sergent Sally Donovan watched as John Watson followed Sherlock around the scene. She just knew that this wouldn't end well. The good doctor seemed too kind for even Sherlock to take advantage of. Then again, Sherlock had surprised her in all the wrong ways before, so why not now?

She listened as Sherlock practically announced to the whole world that she and Anderson were having an affair. Anderson sputtered, ready to punch Sherlock, even though she knew for a fact that he wouldn't. He was all bark and no bite.

John Watson walked around the crime scene like a lost puppy after Sherlock, like he was a little boy with bacon bits for the puppy. He was amazed at the deductions that Sherlock seemed to pull out of thin air, and even told him how amazed he was. Instead of insulting him like DI Lestrade, Sergent Donovan, and Anderson all excepted, he seemed so happy to hear someone tell him that.

Sally wasn't sure what to think. It was probably just another one of the freak's experiments, and Doctor John Watson was going to get hurt playing this game. She even tried to warn him, but he didn't seem too worried about it.

"He must see something that the rest of us jut don't see." Sally Donovan told Anderson as she met him at the end of the pathway, watching John walk away. "I just hope it isn't an illusion he's seeing."

_All you wanted, I could be  
>Now you know me, and I'm not afraid<em>

Sherlock wasn't too surprised when John showed up at him flat after his text. In fact he was rather satisfied with himself that he had made such a deduction that he would.

John stared at Sherlock. It wasn't a 'are-you-crazy?' stare like he was used to getting, it was more of a 'are-you-serious?' look. He had called him all the way across the city, just to use his phone?

'Oh well,' he though as he started typing, 'I guess this is just him. The way he is.'

_And I wanna tell you who I am  
>Can you help me be a man?<em>

DI Lestrade had said that he hoped one day that Sherlock could be a good man. Truth was, he already thought he was becoming one. Unlike his co-workers who seemed to latch on to the fact that Sherlock was just doing yet another experiment, he honestly believed that Sherlock had a true reason to try and keep John around.

John knew next to nothing about Sherlock. He hadn't even known that Sherlock had done drugs. The look of shock when Sherlock was telling him to stop was astonishing. Surely Sherlock would have told John about something like that.

That's when it hit him. Maybe Sherlock hadn't wanted John to know such a thing. Or maybe he didn't know how to tell him. That thought seemed more plausible than the first one. After all, they had just met. Maybe he never planned on telling him anyways. Or maybe he had hoped that he could convince him to stay before he heard about it.

After all he had been on his own for a while. Lestrade still could see the young, nineteen-year-old laying in front of the alley in him. Maybe, just maybe he had wanted someone to help him.

And John Watson could definitely be that person.

_They can't break me  
>As long as I know who I am<em>

Sherlock had never been bothered by Sergent Donovan or Anderson's comments on how he was crazy or a freak. Their puny insults just slid off of his back like water from a duck.

But it did seem to bother John. Poor, kind, John. He often at times was the one to tell Sherlock that he was stepping over the line of "not good." But he unfortunately couldn't tell the world that they were stepping over the line.

Anderson would call Sherlock a freak, and he's take it. Sally would tell him that one day he'd be the one committing the crimes, and he would tell her that she better hope not, since they'd never catch him. And John would watch this. Watch and be annoyed.

How often had Sherlock been told he was a freak? How long until being called a freak became a normal occurrence? Often at times when one of them was stepping too far over the line, John would stand up a bit taller and clear his throat, almost like he was reminding them that he was still there.

Sherlock saw all of this of course. And it didn't bother him at all.

_And I want a moment to be real,  
>Wanna touch things I don't feel,<br>Wanna hold on and feel I belong._

It wasn't long after John moved in that running around the city, across rooftops, and more than once from the cops, that it became second nature to John. He watched again in amazement as Sherlock mapped out which way the criminal would take in his mind before running off.

He shot after him, his leg not bothering him at all. Sherlock didn't even glance back once, not because he didn't care whether John came or not- like most believed-, but because he knew that he would be behind him.

Sherlock had said that he wanted something to replace the drugs. That he wished he could just find something like the drugs without the side-effects, and he had. And even though it sounded sappy and corny, it was friendship. John Watson had become his best friend, practically the only friend he ever had. Sure there had been Sebastien, but he didn't really count. In fact he had said that they all hated him.

Sherlock finally did glance back and saw John right behind him. For once he didn't feel like a freak, or even a sociopath. He felt normal. He almost laughed at the thought of being normal while running across rooftops while chasing after a criminal.

If this was normal, then he could get used to it.

_And how can the world want me to change,  
>They're the ones that stay the same.<br>They can't see me,  
>But I'm still here<em>

Mycroft walked up the stairs to the flat that he knew his brother lived in with Doctor John Watson. He barely knocked before opening the door, no doubt in his mind that Sherlock already knew who it was. Sherlock had been hurt yet again doing something stupid to help solve a case. He had no doubt that John was a good doctor, he just didn't trust him to take care of him in the flat. He'd seen all the disgusting, hazardous material that Sherlock brought into the flat on a daily basis. There was no way he'd allow Sherlock to contract some disease from the mess around him.

When he walked in to the sitting room he saw Sherlock spread out on the couch, his arms limp next to him. He glanced around the room and saw John standing over by the table,where the experiments had at least shifted to give the doctor some room for his supplies.

He was putting on gloves when he turned around and saw Mycroft standing there.

"M-mycroft!" He stuttered. He hadn't even heard the man enter because his mind had been so focused on cleaning the supplies and such. Mycroft smiled at his stuttering and then adapted a grim look.

"What happened?" he asked although he already knew. John didn't say anything about him already knowing, despite the fact that he knew he knew.

"The killer we were tracking down got the jump on us. We didn't even realize it until we were too from the door to run back. They everything from crow bars to guns. We didn't even stand a chance." he said as he walked over to Sherlock and, using a rag, wiped some sweat from his face.

Mycroft nodded. He had seen them attacking John and Sherlock too late to stop it. "So what happened to Sherlock?" he asked.. His voice was calm, but John could tell he was worried.

"He got hit with a crowbar. In the back of the head. Then one of them managed to land a pretty good swipe with a knife on his leg." John said. Mycroft nodded again. He had wondered where the blood was coming from.

Mycroft decided that it was time he bring up his actual reason for coming. "John, while I'm sure that you are quiet a capable doctor-"

John jumped up in front of Mycroft. " No. He made it quiet clear before passing out that he didn't want to have anyone else doing this." He practically growled at Mycroft.

Mycroft held up his hands. "Well that's just fine Doctor. I was merely suggesting that we take him to the hospital where you will be sure to have a clean environment to help my brother." He said. At John's hesitation he continued, "He would have a private room. You would be the only one to take care for him."

An hour later Mycroft decided it was time he visited Sherlock in the hospital. He had heard from several of his workers that Sherlock had thrown a fit at waking up in the hospital. When he arrived he expected to be greeted by an annoyed John, and when he wasn't he was concerned. Surely Sherlock hadn't been so hurt that he didn't even attempt to make an escape.

Or maybe it was something else.

When he walked into Sherlock's room he found Sherlock knocked out by some painkillers, and John fast asleep in the uncomfortable chair next to him. It was clear now, why he had stayed.

He had cared enough about John to at least stay until morning. He was still here because of John.

_They can't tell me who to be,  
>'Cause I'm not what they see.<em>

Sherlock had never been so annoyed in his life. Okay that wasn't true. But he still was really annoyed. Lestrade was trying to get Sergent Donovan and Anderson to stop arguing for a second and to let Sherlock continue, and John was trying to get them to be quiet.

He rolled over onto his side, even though that hurt almost as bad as hearing them argue. He had two cracked ribs, and a pounding headache that was getting worse every second they were in the room.

"Okay, just shut up for a minute." Lestrade said. Donovan and Anderson stopped talking when they heard the annoyed tone he was using. He was looking at Sherlock, who had rolled over onto his side and screwed his eyes shut against the pain.

"This is why you guys can't be in here," John said, realizing what had caused Lestrade to get them to stop talking. "He's still recovering. The second he's okay, we'll be down to Scotland Yard and give a full report. Sherlock gave a grunt at that, and then a moan when it caused him pain.

Donovan looked at Sherlock with concern. "This is why the freak needs to be watched. So he doesn't hurt... himself." she paused, and everyone could tell what she was thinking. She was really thinking that he'd hurt someone else.

_And the world is still sleepin',  
>While I keep on dreamin' for me.<em>

Sherlock laid back against the pillows, still squeezing his eyes shut. John walked over and ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel better. He hadn't even needed this comfort when he got hurt when he was younger.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock." John whispered. "Sweet dreams." he said as he watched his face relax slightly. Lestrade stood off to the side, unsure what to do but not wanting to leave.

Sherlock snorted causing the pained look to come back. "Dream..." he said the word like it was ridiculous.

John only smiled at his behavior as Sherlock drifted off to sleep.

_And their words are just whispers  
>And lies that I'll never believe.<em>

Even after Sherlock had drifted off to sleep he could swear he could hear Sergent Donovan and Anderson talking quiet loudly about him.

"He did it on purpose. Following that criminal into the warehouse I mean. I doubt he actually meant to get himself hurt." With those words she sent a look to John.

"He didn't do anything to get anyone hurt. We honestly had no clue that the gang the killer was associated with was already there. They must have changed their schedule or found out about us coming or something." John said defensively.

"Yeah, I'm so sure the freak just happened to not know what the gang was doing that night. A bit convenient, don't you think? Anderson interrupted.

Even under the medication Sherlock could tell that John shrugged. "And what exactly are you implying, Anderson?" John asked, his military tone coming through.

Anderson shifted uncomfortably. "Look, all I'm saying is is that maybe the freak wanted to get hurt. After all, now he gets the drugs he so badly wants, right?"

Sherlock mentally flinched. He didn't use drugs like that anymore. He hadn't since John had moved in. He had had no reason to since he got the feeling he got from the drugs, from John and nicotine patches.

John clenched his fists closed. "Say that one more time, Anderson. I dare you." John growled lowly before throwing his hand towards the door. "Out. Get out right now. Before I do something, you'll regret."

Anderson and Sergent Donovan quickly scurried out of the room. Right before they left the room John heard Sally mutter, "I guess wanting to murder people rubs off on to you after a while." And with Anderson's reply of, "Well he does live with Sherlock," they were gone.

Lestrade stood back from John, even though he knew that he wasn't angry at him. "I'm sorry about them. They're just... I'm sorry." He said before leaving too.

John leaned over Sherlock and swept some of the hair out of his eyes. "Don't worry, Sherlock. They're only lying."

_And I want a moment to be real,  
>Wanna touch things I don't feel,<br>Wanna hold on and feel I belong.  
>And how can they say I never change<br>They're the ones that stay the same.  
>I'm the one now,<br>'Cause I'm still here._

Sherlock smiled through the painkillers and looked at John. "Thanks." He muttered before closing his eyes again. He went to sleep and John relaxed, knowing that when he woke up Sherlock would still be there, and they would go on another crazy adventure.

_I'm the one,  
>'Cause I'm still here.<br>I'm still here.  
>I'm still here.<br>I'm still here._

* * *

><p>Well that's it. I hope you have enjoyed it. I spent literally all day writing it. I have no clue why, but it was surprisingly easy and challenging at the same time. Sorry if it seems a bit repetitive. A lot of the lyrics are the same.<p>

Thanks for reading, and I hope that you'll review. Good night, world.

P.S. I'm American, so I'm really sorry if I got any of the terms wrong, which I'm sure that I did. In fact I know of one off the top of my head, but oh well. It doesn't really matter as long as you love the series, right?... Right?


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